Peter's s scream tore through the quiet hum of the ATM queue.

“BEEES! OH GOD, GET THEM OFF ME!”

He shouted wildly, spinning like a man trapped in a nightmare. He slapped at his chest, arms, and face, as though invisible enemies were crawling all over his body. People stepped back in confusion, some shielding their children while others began filming with their phones.

Eliot stood silently, watching. His fists were clenched, but not from fear—there was something else bubbling in his skin. A strange mix of justice and disbelief. He hadn’t laid a finger on Peter, yet the result was more satisfying than any punch could have been.

Marthar turned toward him, her eyes wide, trembling. “Eliot… what the hell did you do to him?”

The disbelief in her voice was thinly veiled with fear, but also with curiosity. Her painted lips dried, and for a moment, it was like she didn’t know whether to run or hold onto him.

Eliot didn’t answer. He didn’t have the words—how could he explain the impossible?

But the people around them had seen everything. They saw Peter shove Eliot to the ground earlier, watched as Eliot didn’t retaliate. They knew who the aggressor was. Now that same bully screamed and tore at himself as if possessed.

“He deserved it,” an older woman in a scarf muttered nearby. “Serves him right, attacking that poor boy.”

Still, Marthar refused to let go of her panic. She knelt beside Peter as he tore off his shirt, screaming and scraping at his bare chest. “Help! Someone help him!” she cried. “Please!”

But no one moved. If anything, the crowd pulled further back, more intrigued than concerned. Phones hovered in the air, catching every second of Peter's meltdown. The madness had a magnetic pull—one that Eliot now understood was a curse and a gift all at once.

Peter dashed into his car, his body still twitching. He slammed the door shut, but a few seconds later, he stumbled out again, stripped down to his boxers now. He rolled on the concrete, howling.

“THEY’RE IN MY HAIR!” he screamed. “OH GOD, THEY’RE IN MY EYES!”

He scratched until blood streaked his face. And still—no bees.

Just him, his demons, and whatever Eliot had unknowingly summoned.

Marthar took a step back, her eyes locked on Eliot again. “You… you’re a witch,” she whispered. “You did this to him.”

But Eliot didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His chest felt heavy with too many things at once—anger, power, and a sharp sting of guilt.

The system appeared again, glowing faintly in the corner of his vision like a ghost whispering only to him.

[“Punishment administered. Mission count: 0. Remaining time: 64 hours. Funds used: 0.25. Failure to spend 100% results in termination.”]

“Termination…” he echoed under his breath, the word sticking to his tongue like acid.

The crowd began to disperse as Peter was finally dragged into his car by two strangers. Marthar stood beside it, frozen. She didn't even look back at Eliot as the engine roared and the car disappeared into traffic.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The system’s interface popped again, displaying the updated account balance.

[Remaining: 749,000 credits.

“Use it… or die,]” Eliot muttered to himself. He stepped away from the ATM, his mind spinning. What if I use all of it and become broke again? What happens then?

But another whisper from the system cut through his spiral.

[Completion of missions unlocks further opportunities and rewards. Failure to spend will result in death. Your first official mission will arrive in: 16 hours and 34 minutes.”]

He turned his eyes to the street. The faces around him blurred. His pulse thudded against his eardrums. The weight of what had just happened wouldn’t leave him.

The money. The missions. The power to punish. It all sounded like a game, but the terror in Peter’s voice, the tears in Martha's eyes, and the weight of guilt coiling in Eliot’s stomach said otherwise.

This was real. And it was deadly.

That night, Eliot didn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as rain tapped against his window. The room was dimly lit by the flicker of the streetlamp outside, but even in that flickering glow, his mind refused peace.

Why me?

He kept asking himself.

Why now?

His thoughts again to his parents—how their car crash had left him broken and alone at the age of eight. No relatives, no one willing to take in a boy with haunted eyes and night terrors. He’d been passed around from foster home to foster home, often mistreated, sometimes ignored.

The trauma was real. The loneliness even more so.

He used to believe life was just about surviving each day. Working small jobs, skipping meals, keeping a low profile. Love, like with Lana, had only reminded him how temporary happiness could be.

Now, this… system… had turned his miserable life into something unpredictable and terrifying.

But also… powerful.

He sat up and turned on the lamp. The light cast long shadows, and in the corner of the room, the system’s interface shimmered like a digital deity.

“Are you watching me right now?” he whispered.

The system responded with a flickering line of text:

[“Always.”]

The hairs on the back of his neck stood. Eliot rubbed his arms and stood to pace the room.

He needed to think clearly.

If he used the money carelessly, he’d lose everything again.

But if he failed to use it at all…

He remembered the earlier warning.

“Result: Termination.”

Eliot's fists trembled. Not from fear, but from something else.

Determination.

If this was some twisted game, then he’d learn its rules. He’d master them. He wouldn’t be a victim anymore—not to the system, not to life, not to anyone.

The next morning, Eliot stood in front of a luxury clothing store. He hadn’t showered. He hadn’t changed. But the weight of a black card with his name on it burned in his wallet like a ticking bomb.

He stepped inside.

The smell of leather and perfume hit him first, and then came the eyes—judging, curious, suspicious.

A woman in a blazer approached. Her smile was paper-thin. “Can I help you, sir?”

Eliot smiled, pulling the card from his wallet. “Yes. I need a full wardrobe.”

The woman blinked, then tilted her head. “Our price range is—”

“I didn’t ask the price,” he interrupted. “I asked for a full wardrobe. Clothes. Shoes. Jacket. Even the cologne.”

Her eyes lingered on the card, and the system seemed to pulse in the back of his mind, like it was watching—approving.

An hour later, Eliot walked out wearing a sleek black coat over a designer outfit. The kind of clothes he’d only ever seen in shop windows. His shoes clicked confidently on the pavement.

The world suddenly looked different. Or maybe he looked different to the world.

But even as strangers passed and glanced with admiration, Eliot felt the emptiness beneath it all. Clothes couldn’t change his past. They couldn’t erase the cold nights, the bullying, the pain of watching Lana walk away with someone else.

Still, it was something.

A start.

As he stood outside the store, the system whispered one last line.

“Mission countdown: 12 hours. Prepare.”

Eliot closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

He was ready.

Or so he thought.